


Frost (Melting Away)

by 00Cat00



Series: The Jotün and the Prince [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, But he's trying, Child Abandonment, Cute Loki (Marvel), Death, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jotun Thor, Jötnar | Jotuns | Frost Giants (Norse Religion & Lore), Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Kid Loki (Marvel), Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Thor (Marvel), Violence, War, baby Loki, depressed Thor, he's been through a lot, like animals, seriously he's a ray of sunshine, they're savages in this one, ya'll thor is seriously screwed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00Cat00/pseuds/00Cat00
Summary: All Thor had ever known was war.All he knew was bloodshed, and ash and smoke.All he knew were the bodies of his enemies, blood splattered in the snow.He never knew love. He never knew compassion.Until now."Hewwo?"-------You know Jötun kid Loki with Prince kid Thor, now get ready for Jötun warrior Thor and baby Loki.Mirror fic to Child's Play.Kind of similar to Monsters Inc but not really.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel), literally - Relationship, that's it - Relationship
Series: The Jotün and the Prince [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043178
Comments: 7
Kudos: 127





	1. The Tiny Thing

**TW:** Discussions of blood and death– _kind_ of explicit. Abandonment. Angst. General profound thoughts. Not the happy kind. Heed the tags.

Hopeful ending.

\-----------------------

All he ever knew was war.

He knew the feeling of his giant hammer, cold on his hand. He knew the rough feeling of the battle axe he occasionally held. 

He knew the feeling of his enemies' skulls crushing beneath them.

He knew the thrill of battle, of heavy breathing and pained screaming. He knew the taste of smoke entering his mouth and lungs, he knew the burning pain of wounds.

He knew the feeling of warm, sticky blood sliding through his hands, he knew the terror in his enemies' eyes when they found themselves at his mercy.

He knew the pale stillness of death, the face of agony frozen in a twisted mask as they fell silent.

Frozen like his land. 

The land he knew, the cold caves and screeching winds.

The bitter people, each one fending for themselves, sliding each century into a deeper and deeper animalistic identity. Taken away, stolen, by one who they once bowed to. They took his eye in return.

He had lost his voice, but he knew his words. They resounded inside his head, like an unending echo. He knew his name, but did not care to claim it.

He was frozen, just like his land. Just like his prey, just like the dead.

Frozen until he had a reason to move. To kill.

Blood, rinse and repeat.

He knew his routine. He knew his sins, and made peace with them. He knew his future, and where he would end.

He knew.

.

.

.

.

What he did not know was what in Hel that _thing_ was.

"Hewwo?"

Tiny. Unbearably _tiny_. He could almost fit it in his whole fist. Fragile, thin.

He could crush it under his foot, like a pesky bug.

He imagined what it would be like. Warm blood splattering everywhere, the cracking of bones, like such of a newborn bird. Would it cry? Would it scream? He did not think so. It was much too tiny.

He did not move. He had no reason to. The tiny thing was not an enemy. It could barely walk straight. He stayed hunched in the same position, leaning against his cave, hidden but still visible if anything decided to peek inside. This was his place. Thus, his territory. He had left his marks, done with his axe, like claw marks running up and down in an incomprehensible pattern to any different race, but ringing clear with warning to other Jötnar.

Anyone trespassing would die at his hands.

But the tiny thing would not. His work was cut out for him.

It clearly did not belong here, so it would die with the upcoming storm. It would blacken with frostbite and whither, and eventually it would become a carcass, still and dead.

Things from the outside tended to last shorter than the weakest warrior in this place. The cold was unforgiving.

Just like life was. A petty, unforgiving thing.

The tiny thing clearly had no such qualms, for it stumbled and wobbled clumsily closer to where he was sitting. 

He growled in warning. He could tolerate its presence while it died, but he would _not_ appreciate it coming too close.

It would get hurt. It would die faster. Because everything they touched died in a heartbeat.

The tiny thing stopped in its tracks, becoming so startled he lost balance and fell on its bottom. How pathetic. How had it even _gotten_ here?

Wide, shiny green eyes stared up at him. Strange. He had only ever seen red eyes.

Red dead eyes, aggressive and mistrusting.

These ones however...they only held curiosity.

Pure, unadulterated wonder. How... _peculiar_. He would have thought the tiny thing would be scared. 

Smaller things often were.

"You, gwwol?" it babbled, putting its hand in its mouth. He did nothing. Its musings were nothing but white noise, lost to the screaming wind outside. They were unimportant.

The tiny thing looked around, fragile neck turning this way and that. He did not understand what it found interesting. There was nothing here, save for a few dead leaves on the ground. It still looked, and inevitably, its gaze returned to him. The thing put its hands flat on the ground and stood up, legs trembling. It walked closer to him.

Did it not understand his warning? He growled deeper. The tiny thing stopped again, but this time it did not fall. Only titled its head.

One step closer. He growled again. The tiny thing did a weird thing with its mouth. What was that?

Another step, this time deliberate. He snarled, showing his teeth. Do _not_ come closer. It made a foreign noise, repetitive and high, and wiggled its fists.

...Another. He had enough. He roared strongly, shaking the walls of the cave. Birds screeched outside, frightened by his might. As they should be. As it _should_ be.

There was silence after. The tiny thing had widened its eyes even more, frozen in place.

Always frozen. 

Its face made a strange spasm. He hoped it would not cry. Crying was annoying. If it cried, he decided, he would kill it himself.

He did not need any more noise in his existence. The only cries he relished in were the ones of his enemies, because he was able to end them quickly, their choked tears cutting into silence with a swing of his hammer.

But once again, the tiny thing proved him wrong. It started... _blowing_ air out of its mouth in short bursts of sound, similar to a bird's chirping. Its mouth was wide, showing him its harmless canines, and its eyes were shut tight, open to any unexpected attack. Its small frame shook with trembles, and it twisted its hands over its middle.

What...what was it doing?

He...knew that noise. He had heard it once, several times in fact. Before. When times were kinder, when their land was shining with abundance and the Heart of the Ice was in its rightful place. Before the war. Before he became this miserable thing. When he was smaller, more naive. Not as tiny as this fragile thing, though.

But he could still do that sound back then.

It was...He struggled to find the word in the darkest corners of his mind.

Laughter.

_Laughter._

He stared at the tiny thing. It was laughing. He remembered, laughter was a way to express one's joy or excitement.

Why...? Why was it _happy?_ It was lost, stranded probably, in a frozen, desolate place. It would die soon, he knew, buried under the snow somewhere, stiff and cold. It was trapped in a cave with a _monster_.

So why was it laughing?

The tiny thing finally ceased its laughter, and looked up at him again, with watery eyes and a turn of its mouth.

Another spark was lit in his mind, long forgotten. Smiling.

The little thing smiled at him. At _him_. At an abomination, a monster.

....No.

No, this one did not know of the world. It was too tiny, too _new_ to it. If it was bigger, stronger perhaps, infused with the knowledge of Jötunheim's perversity, it would not laugh, certainly. It would glare, it would scream–it would shout hurtful words he could understand but was not able to deny.

It would eventually die at their hands. If not he, then someone or something else.

This...happy, laughing thing, would die.

...It would die. It was normal. It was fate, the end of the line everybody reached one day.

So why...?

The tiny thing shuffled closer, all rosy cheeks and chubby legs.

"'Gain! 'Gain!"

He stared at it, not understanding. It stood close enough to touch him, and he could not even turn away, stunned as he was. It knelt next to him, and patted the ground with its hand.

"Dwo it 'gain!"

Oh. It wanted him to...

He growled hesitantly. The tiny thing laughed again, clapping its hands together. The sound...it sounded like...bells. Like a fresh stream. Like the stars in the sky. Like everything good and kind he forgot existed. The opposite of this place. The opposite of suffering and death.

...When had been the last time _he_ had laughed? He could not remember. Not even smiling.

It was...like a light was shining in front of him. Such a simple thing, unimportant like was a growl, had made the tiny thing laugh. Had made it _happy_.

With a start, he realized... _he_ had made it happy.

These teeth, good only for tearing flesh apart, that had been bloodied so many times...the horrible sounds that had come out of it...

He had made it laugh. And...it felt...

It felt...warm.

Warm in a world of frost and ice.

He looked upon the little one with newfound admiration. That one so vulnerable could find amusement in one that could crush him without effort...It was a kind of braveness he had never seen before.

The tiny thing smiled at him, and he felt something in his chest give. He reached a tentative hand to it.

It had been so long since he had found a reason to let go of his frostbite...but...

He did not want to hurt this creature. It did not deserve it, unknowing of the dangers of this world, innocent as it was.

The little one smiled wider and grabbed one of his fingers with its pudgy fists.

It was warm too.

Warm against his cold skin. Peach against blue.

Warm...

_"Ah–choo!"_

He startled. The tiny thing had something transparent beneath its nose. It rubbed its hands against it. 

Snot.

Sneeze.

It was _cold_.

Of course. He had forgotten for a moment. The cold was starting to settle in, the storm roaring above the skies.

This one...

It would _die_.

It had already started trembling.

He watched with something akin to despair as the tiny thing shivered against the cold. Its cheeks reddening further from a healthy pink to a furious red. 

He did not like this. This feeling. It was not warm, it was...

Helplessness.

A wave of rage overcame him, different from the blind red haze of war.

Tiny things always had caretakers.

Even deplorable creatures such as they had them still, until they were of age or they died. Because they knew that small creatures could not always take care of themselves. They needed someone else.

So where were the tiny thing's caretakers? He looked down at it.

It was sniffing constantly, not crying, but definitely dimmer than before. He did know what _this_ meant.

Unhappiness. Discomfort. He clenched his giant fist without truly realizing it.

The tiny thing should not be unhappy. It should be cared for. Even a murderer like him knew how valuable small ones were. They would carry their weapons next, they would battle their war next.

His mind unclogged from the dark mist that had been settled over it through the last few centuries, racing with concerns and thoughts that had never crossed his bloodied soul before.

...Could he try?

...Could he _hope_ to try?

He was not made for this. He was made for destruction, for death. He had stepped over countless corpses, melted, severed, trespassed. He had helped with this empty fate. He was one more monster in the legends. He was alone, caretakers gone, facing his enemies on his own.

...It would be dangerous. This world was not made for softness.

But...it would only be for a short time. Until the little thing's caretakers appeared.

...And if they did not? What if they were dead? Or simply thought it better to leave their offspring behind to wither in fear?

Then...then he would see. He would take a decision. 

But for now?

For now he needed fire.

Unheard of. _Blasphemous_ , how something so crucial to other species was the very thing that had been an aid to their realm's doom. A betrayal, to look for it, desire it. _Use_ it.

But the little thing needed it.

So he needed it too.

He sighed, making his whole frame rumble and messing the tiny thing's hair.

The small one looked up again, trembling. Its eyes held no judgement, no rage, no blame. They were clear as a lake. Trusting.

Trusting _him_.

He swallowed. It had been a long time since he made use of this. He gathered his Seidr under his chest, feeling the old pressure come back to life like a wheel full of rust that just started to move again. It crackled at his fingertips. The little thing made a soft sound and smiled when the thin hairs of its arms stood up. Lightning lit up the skies. Just a little more.

_There_.

He took hold of the sharp edges of the deadly blade, of light and blinding power. He heard the little one scream, shrill and high, but forced himself to continue.

Lighting bent and struck in the pile of dry leaves scattered over the cave, setting it on fire. Thunder broke out in the distance.

Thunder...

That. That was it.

He gathered the leaves quickly, preventing it from dying out and feeding the improvised bonfire in the process. It would not burn much longer, but it would be enough for him to gather wood to make a more permanent source of fire.

...It was bright. And warm.

Like the tiny thing.

Speaking of which. He looked down, and found the little one pressed against his side, barely visible fingers curling against his pelts. It was so small he had not felt it leaning into him. It was scared.

Something in his chest gave a pang. 

The little thing was scared, and it had come to _him_ for comfort. It could have run away, it could have covered itself with its arms, unmoving, but it had not.

It had chosen him. The monster. The murderer.

...If he truly belonged in Hel, such a fragile creature would not have ran to him for protection, would it?

He did not know.

The tiny thing looked up with watery eyes and trembling lips.

But he could not talk. He could not offer platitudes nor promises. That had been lost to him far too long ago. He could only make rumbling noises.

Like a wild animal.

He pushed the tiny creature with his finger, nudging it gently–what a strange concept, _gentleness_ –in the fire's direction. It made a noise of protest, clinging to him and pushing with inexistent force in the other direction. 

It was safe, he wanted to say. Fire was good. But he could only make a wordless hum. 

He ripped a part of his pelt, just a fraction, and dropped it on the tiny thing as a sort of blanket. It buckled under the weight, and he worried he had hurt it–useless, monster, _murderer_ –but it poked its fragile head out and passed a hand through the fur, looking awed. It was slightly wet from the snow, but it did not seem to mind, and it rubbed its cold cheek against the fabric with a content sigh.

It seemed to realize the fire was harmless, and scooted closer to it, raising its tiny hands to warm them up. It made that sound again. Laughter, and twisted its head to look upside down at him.

"Fiwre! Hot!" it chirped. He nodded.

"You come?" it asked, with hopeful eyes.

Kind. But impossible. He was a frost giant. He was ice. He could not expose himself. He shook his head. The tiny thing wilted, looking dejected.

"Cold?" it insisted. He shook his head again. He could not. The tiny thing frowned, and stood up quickly, bundling up the pelts in its thin arms with difficulty. It trotted over to him, and lay the fabric over his hand. Then, to his complete shock, it squirmed until it was under the blanket next to his hand, and smiled up at him.

"There! Hot! Us two, gwood!" it patted his hand.

Was it...trying to warm him up too?

...

That was...

Cautiously, slowly, he brushed a finger against the tiny thing's head, feeling the fragility of its skull, trying to touch it as softly as he could, like he had seen other races do to their little ones. It wiggled happily like a little serpent, leaning into him. There was silence, save for the fire's crackling and the leaves burning. It would die out soon, but it would be enough to make the little one last until the morning. He already knew he would not be gathering firewood today. His hand was compromised, and he could not move, lest he disturbed the tiny creature.

This was something he had never felt before. _Never_ before.

Warm. So warm.

It felt nice.

No blood, no screaming, no torment. Not a trace of a storm in his mind, crushing him between its cruel accusations and the bitter echoes of guilt.

Just the fire, the slow breathing of the tiny thing, and him.

Him.

The Thunderer.

He remembered. Before. Before being a murderer, before being a monster, a shell of what he once was, forced to grow up too fast and face carnage and mutilation.

Before that, he had been someone. This tiny thing had reminded him of it. He was someone, and he had a purpose, one that was more than destroying an enemy, than winning a battle. A purpose truly worthy of existing.

.

.

.

He was _Thor_.


	2. Firewood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Adorable Loki. You have been warned. References to child abuse and abandonment. General Thor angst.

When Loki woke up, he was hot.

But not a bad hot, a nice hot instead.

He had slept a bit weird, since there was not a pillow nearby and the ground was hard, but the soft brown thing kept him nice and toasty. Also the fire. He wanted to cast a fire too, but he was too ine– unexpie–um, little to do it yet.

He also had the big hand next to him.

The big hand belonged to the big, _giaaaant_ man with the funny noise. He was awake.

"Hewwo!" he greeted, like his mommy and daddy told him to always do. The giant man looked at him, but did not talk.

It was weird. He was big, yet he did not speak. Loki thought every big person knew how to. But not him. Loki knew, though.

He wiggled out of his cocoon and rubbed his eyes. It was cold. _Very_ cold. He shivered and grabbed the warm brown thing to cover himself with. That made it a bit better.

The fire was gone, there was just a black, weird thing on the ground where it had been. Loki liked the fire, but he did not like the bright, sharp thing the giant man had used to make it. It had been scary. And the thing that came after was loud.

Loki did not like loud, sharp things. They were bad.

The giant man's funny noise was alright, though. It was loud, but it was not sharp. And it was fun to try and make. It showed all his teeth.

The giant man started to move. It shook the whole ground. It was like a mountain was waking up from its nap! Loki giggled at the funny feeling. The giant man could not stand up all the way, because he was too big and the cave was too small, but he began walking to the opening of the cave, where it was snowy and _even_ _colder_. 

That was right. The giant man did not like hot things. He did not like fire. Maybe it was because he was blue, and ice was blue. So he liked cold better.

Loki went after him, and looked at the trees.

They were pretty, and the icy sharp things were shiny and they made the snow glow with colors. He smiled at the giant man, wondering if he liked this too.

The giant man was not smiling. 

He looked sad, actually. He wondered what it was, that made him sad.

Loki was sad when his food fell to the ground, or when he tripped. Also when mommy and daddy got mad at him. That always hurt, so it made him sad.

He wondered where mommy and daddy were.

...And why they had left him there.

But! The giant man did not trip. And he looked like he was alone. He did not have any food either.

His stomach growled softly. Food...mmm.

The giant man went out of the cave after sniffing the air. Loki sniffed too. It smelled like snow. The giant man shook his golden hair like a dog. Loki shook his too. This was fun!

The giant man held a big sharp thing. It was shiny, too, and it had little brown dots on it. What was that? It was made of trees and ice. He tilted his head, and went to follow.

A finger stopped him.

What?

He looked up in confusion. The giant man was looking at him with his red eyes. They were a bit scary. The man shook his head.

No? No what?

He took a fist in his mouth, sucking it nervously. Had he done something wrong? The giant man turned and began to walk again. Loki went to follow.

And again, he was stopped. He did not understand, why couldn't he go?!

He stared up at the giant man, feeling his sadness grow with his tears. Was he being bad again? Had he done something that the man did not like?

Was he...was he _leaving_ him here?

He felt the crying get worse, and he could not see anymore through his tears.

Why was he leaving? Why was he leaving Loki? Without saying anything, without saying _why_.

Like...like mommy and daddy.

Then did that mean he would not come back? No, _no_ , that could not be true! He did not want to! He did not want to be alone here! It was cold, and it was lonely! It was scary!

He wanted to go with him! He gripped the finger tight, so that if the giant man left, he would take him with him too. Was it because Loki was lazy? He could help! He could help finding berries, or cleaning snow! He could do things!

He wanted to go with him, even if that meant he would be angry at him. Anger was okay. Loki could take it.

Just _please_ , do not leave him!

"Don' go! Don' go...!" he managed to say between sobs.

Please.

Don't leave.

\-----------------------------------

Thor was weak.

That was the only explanation.

He, who had destroyed countless villages, who had won countless battles, who had been known as the Thunderer for his raw power...

He was _weak_.

That was surely why he was trekking through the quiet, dead forest with the tiny thing sniffing on his shoulder.

The tiny thing had cried when Thor had made to leave, and it was so sudden, so unexpected, Thor had stopped moving for a few seconds.

A few _precious_ seconds.

Then he had started to think. How could he make the tiny thing stop crying? Not only was it annoying, it could attract other monsters, or dark things that hid in the forest. Attracted by the promise of blood and a weak prey. By the prospect of _food_.

Not that Thor would let them lay a hand on the tiny thing, but still.

It would be annoying to deal with the blood and the corpses. Causing a ruckus so early in the morning...it was not his ideal activity.

But examining the situation, the little one was upset because he did not want to stay. Thor had been frustrated like never before for his lack of words. He could not explain that it was much too dangerous, that he needed to stay hidden, lest he got hurt. 

That Thor would be back.

So the only immediate way to make the tiny thing stop wailing–and what _strong_ lungs in such a small body–was to grant it its wishes and take it with him to gather firewood. The effects were swift. Almost like a spell.

He would not make a habit of it, though. Giving the tiny thing whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted it was begging for trouble. It had to learn that in this realm, not every creature was as weak as Thor was. Many, not to say all, would jump at an opportunity to inflict pain upon another. They would take advantage of the tiny thing's innocence. They would spill its warm blood over the snow, and take its body between their teeth.

Not a scrap, not even one as small as this was, would be wasted in this land.

The small one would have to learn that this was not a happy place. It was full of cruelty and nightmares, and Thor would try to keep its sinless soul intact for as long as he could, but there were some things that were crucial for survival in this wretched kingdom.

Right now though, the tiny thing was dozing on his shoulder, worn out from the tears, grabbing on with surprising strength to the strands of his hair. Thor had to be more careful than he normally would be when he passed the twisted branches of the trees, having to bend down so the cold snow would not fall on its fragile head.

Hm. Those pelts would not do all the time. They would have to pay the wasteland a visit later then.

There they were. Several thick trees, perfect for making firewood if they dried sufficiently. 

The tiny thing had to get down. Thor grabbed the small one by its fragile middle, suddenly hyper conscious of his strength. He could squish it like a bug if he lost control of it, even a little. The creature made a small sound of sleepy confusion.

Thor swept a patch of snow with his foot, leaving it devoid of snow, and revealing the bare dark ground beneath. He placed the tiny thing down, bundling it up in the pelts.

"What 'wwong? Up?" it piped up sadly, making grabbing motions with its fists towards him. Thor shook his head, grumbling low in his chest. At least he could do this. He shook his open palm twice towards the small one in the universal sign of 'Wait'.

It seemed to understand, putting its hands down and tilted its head, shoving its fist in its mouth in a gesture that was purely disgusting but was growing on Thor like a malicious weed.

He would have to get a bit farther for this.

He picked a tree that looked sturdy and strong. It would be infinitely easy for Thor to shatter, though. Like bones, like flesh.

He dragged a thumb along the cutting ice edge of his axe...it had a name, once. It eluded him, like most things. Forgotten, along with other things that once had been important to him.  
He had recovered three things so far. Laughter, smiling, and his name. 

For now, that was enough.

He hung the weapon down his back, preparing his arms. The muscles bulged under the slight strain.

He swung, in a practiced motion. How many times had he done this? How many times had he cut along the path to make way for destruction? How many times had he severed a limb? How many lives had been lost, ruined by this cursed weapon?  
And now, Thor was swinging again. But not to end life. This time to just cut a tree. This time doing something harmless, something _good_. Something useful for the sake of another.

For the sake of the tiny thing.

Tree bristles and splinters flew through the air as Thor chopped away expertly. In no time at all there was a decent pile of wood in the snow. Thor wrapped an old rope he had around his waist, thick and still strong, around them and hauled them up his shoulder.

A tiny hand gave a pat to his leg.

The small one had ran clumsily over to him. It was not crying. Good. Perhaps chopping wood was a normal activity wherever it was from.

"I wan' hep!" 

He sighed. This... _archaic_ form of communication was proving to be very troublesome, although he could not complain when his voice was as useless as a pebble. They would have to work on that. He stared at the tiny thing, trying to understand.

"Hep! I wan' hep!" it repeated, having the gall to _huff_ at him and waving its useless arms around like _Thor_ was the one who spoke in an incomprehensible tongue. Thor growled softly, trying to make it understand the absurdity of the situation.

And the tiny creature _growled right back._

It...was not so much of a growl actually. Just a pathetic attempt at one. Scrunching its delicate features into a small snarl and making a 'grrr' sound that was not intimidating in the least. Thor was still offended. He leaned down and blew air out of his mouth, making the tiny creature topple over. It gave a indignant screech.

They stayed in silence for a few moments.

The small one sniffed petulantly and stood back up–Thor had to admire its resilience–toddling over to some fragile branches that had fallen from the cut down tree. It gathered them in its arms, and stomped over moodily to where Thor was standing, glaring up defiantly.

"I hep!"

Oh.

_Oh._

Thor raised his eyes to the grey heavens in exasperation. So _that_ was what it meant. Strange little thing. Still, it was a good thing that the little one knew it had to help as well. If Thor would be putting up with its pesky presence, it was good it knew this early that it would have to work too. Everyone had work to do. Everyone had to fend for themselves.

Teaming up only led to betrayal. Teaming up only led to discontent sides, and difficult decisions. But if teaming up had something right, it was that.

The tiny thing would also have to work if it wanted to live.

Thor turned around and started the long walk back to the cave, slower than usual to allow the little one to keep up with its stubby legs.

And if Thor ended up carrying his small companion back to the cave when it got too tired to continue...well, he had already established he was weak.

.

.

.

As the tiny thing babbled away on his shoulder, holding tight to his useless twigs, Thor found he did not mind being weak if it led to moments like these.


End file.
